Death Takes A Mental Health Day
by Telemain's Daughter
Summary: Dean and Sam face their toughest challenge yet-roadtripping with the Grim Reaper herself.


_A/N: Inspired by the Tumblr "Death as HR representative" post from rabababe; the characters of Death as portrayed by Sir Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, and on the web series "The Goreys"; a little bit of Welcome to Night Vale; and, of course, the 1934 movie "Death Takes a Holiday". And if you are as dark-humored and obsessed with religious mythology and humanism as I am, you should definitely check out those sources, too._

 _I've only reached Season 4-ish in my binge-watching of SPN, so this takes place—sometime between Seasons 1-4, okay? Pick a time. (I decided not to bring Castiel into it bc I don't have handle on his character yet. Although he would certainly add an… interesting dynamic, wouldn't he?)_

 _Enjoy, and let me know what you think._

 _All rights belong to the creators. (I realized I always say this, when, in fact, the rights belong to the copyright holders, who are often very different people. But I'm all for upholding the intellectual property rights of content creators, ergo: All rights belong to the creators.)_

 _For my sister, who knows how to work the system ; )_

* * *

"I can't believe you forgot the pie, Sam," Dean muttered, one hand on the wheel as he dug around in the take-out bag.

"I can't believe they put minced onions on my burger," Sam said disgustedly, lifting his bun and frowning. "I didn't think minced onions were still a thing."

"You had one job, man. Get the food and remember the pie."

"That's two jobs," Sam corrected absently. "I mean, they just get _everywhere_ , you can't even pick them— _DEAN, WATCH OUT_!"

Dean's head snapped up. A figure stood in the center of the dusty highway, a dark outline in the blazing noonday sun. Dean stomped the brakes and yanked the wheel to the right. The Impala swerved at the last second. The tires bumped over the gravel ridges of the shoulder and ground to a stop, one wheel hanging over into the grass.

Dean could feel his heartbeat thudding in his ears, the churned-up road dust drifting into his nose and mouth. There were French fries spilled across his lap, but he couldn't move to brush them away. He couldn't call out to Sam. The air around him seemed to have locked in the heat, with only his heart still in motion-

 _beat… beat… beat… beat…_

 _Out of the dust cloud the figure came. A long hand, reaching out of darkness, through the open window to touch his neck. The fingers were rough and cold as bone, and they lingered for only a moment before they were gone. On the edge of hearing, a voice._

" _Enjoy your stay! See you next time…"_

 _beat… beat… beat… beat…_

-and then the world snapped back and Sam was coughing and Dean was swatting at the spilled food and uttering swear words like a prayer.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, man." Sam sucked in a breath. "Who the hell was that?"

"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out." Dean threw open his door and stalked to the middle of the road. The dust had settled. No other cars were visible in either direction. The highway was as still and lonely as it had been a few minutes before.

"C'mon!" Dean yelled into the bright silence. "Show yourself, you crazy bitch! What's the idea, standing in the road? You trying to get yourself killed?"

His foot slid against the ground. He looked down. Sprayed across the cracked asphalt was an expanse of loose gravel, lost off the back of some truck. Just ahead was a giant spreading oak, its branches overhanging the road. Dean looked back at the gravel, and the burnt rubber tracks left by the Impala—

— _and he could see it in his mind. Driving fast, eyes off the road. Skidding in the sudden gravel, spinning out, brakes locked. The tree. Nothing in the windshield but the tree, and then nothing, nothing at all._

 _But for a woman, standing in the road. Standing_ beyond _the gravel. A woman, standing on the other side—_

—Sam's door slammed. "How do you know it was a she?" Sam asked, coming around the car.

"She was—I heard—I just do, okay?" Dean snapped.

"Ohhh-kaaaaay…" Sam drawled. "Well, I don't see her now. Do you think it was a spiritwalker? Maybe another phantom hitcher?"

"I think we cheated death again," Dean muttered.

"What?"

"I said— "

"You may think so, dear, but I'll let you in on a little industry secret: the house always wins."

Dean and Sam spun around. Standing on the double yellow line was a woman. She had golden brown skin and dark hair in a thick bun. She was dressed, despite the July heat, in a well-cut black suit. She wasn't old or young, tall or short, fat or thin. She simply was, where a moment ago she simply wasn't.

She was holding a purple plastic clipboard, and making a note with a black and silver pen.

Sam cleared his throat. "Ma'am…?"

"Be with you in _just_ a second," she said. She dotted an _i_ and clicked the pen. "There. Now, how may I help you?"

"You could start by not standing in the middle of the damn road," Dean growled. He opened his mouth to continue, but stopped when the woman walked obligingly over to stand on the gravel shoulder next to the car.

"I didn't mean _now_ ," he said.

"No? Do be careful, I tend to take things _very_ literally." She flipped up a couple sheets on her clipboard. "Normally I wouldn't do this, but then I saw who you _were_. You're something of a legend back at HQ. Between the two of you, you've managed to fill out _ten_ Near Death Experience punch cards. Congratulations! You are now entitled to one Big Question to be answered personally by me!" She gave them a brilliant smile. "Some restrictions may apply."

"Who _are_ you?" Sam demanded.

"Are you sure you want that to be your question?"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances and nodded. "Yeah, yeah we're pretty sure we're going with that one."

"I am the Grim Reaper," the woman said.

" _Excuse_ me?" said Sam.

"No," said Dean, at the same time.

"Yes," she said. "I am the personification of Death." When they continued to stare at her she added, in a much quieter voice, "Ta-da…"

Dean shook his head. "I've _met_ the Grim Reaper." He gave the woman a once-over. "And let me tell you, lady, he looked _nothing_ like you."

The woman consulted her clipboard. "Let's see… tent revivals… faith healing… oh-seven… ah! You met Eugene. He's one of our work-studies. I do apologize, sometimes he can get a little carried away with the makeup. We had to let him go, due to complaints."

"How can you be death for everyone?" Sam asked, getting his Research Fanatic game face on. "Is it everyone everywhere, do you have regional chapters, I mean—"

The Grim Reaper held up her pen. "I'm so sorry, I specifically said one question. Those are the rules."

"But—"

"And if I bend the rules for you, I must bend them for everybody, and then I'll spend all my time answering questions, when really that's what the Help Desk is for. You wouldn't want Lorraine to be out of a job, would you?"

"No…?"

Dean cut in. "But there's two of us. You said we" - _might as well humor the crazy lady, who knows, she might be right_ \- "filled out those… punch card things together. So, we should each get a question."

The Grim Reaper inclined her head, and Dean had the distinct impression that _she_ was humoring _him_. "All right. A question for each of you, and then I really must be going. Sam already asked his, now it's your turn."

Dean looked at Sam, who raised his eyebrows. "Okay," said Dean. "Uhhh… How are you death for everyone? With all the diversity and shit."

She hugged her clipboard to her chest and turned on the megawatt smile again. "I'm so glad you asked! Death Unlimited, LLC, prides itself on being a non-denominational, egalitarian company. We Put People First!"

"Dean," said Sam.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I'm creeped out now."

"Okay! Well!" The Grim Reaper—or whoever she was—edged around the car and began backing away from them down the highway. "I have about 34.72 places to be right now, so I'll just be heading along- "

Dean lunged after her. "Not so fast, lady." He grabbed her arm. "If you are who you say you are, we can't have you out there killing people."

The Reaper smacked his hand—hard—with her clipboard. "Don't you get all high and mighty with me, buster. Or have your forgotten how many people _you_ killed yesterday?"

"We _saved_ people yesterday," Dean growled. "We were doing our job."

"And I need to be doing mine." Her expression softened. "I don't kill people, Dean Winchester. People kill people, life kills people."

"Dead people kill people, ever think that was a problem that needed fixing?"

She frowned. "Unfortunately, we do have a high rate of recidivism. I have a committee meeting to discuss solutions next Tuesday." She flipped up a page on her clipboard and made another note.

"Here's a solution: would it kill you to take a vacation every once in a while?"

"Come on, Dean," said Sam, eyeing the Reaper. "I don't think this is one we should mess with."

Dean backed away from the woman in the road. "Well, you do your job and I'll do mine, lady, and we'll just see who wins."

"No one wins, dear," the Reaper said absently. "No one wins except the house."

Dean shook his head and opened the driver's side door of the Impala. The Reaper was sitting in the passenger seat, not a hair out of place, clipboard in her lap.

"On the other hand, I haven't had a day off in forever." She smiled. "Do you fancy a road trip? I call shotgun."

"I'm _getting_ the shotgun," Dean muttered, but Sam hissed "Maybe we can get her to answer more questions," and gave him a shove towards the seat, then went around to get in the back, behind the Reaper.

"So, is that it?" Dean asked, one hand on the ignition. "You're just… off-duty now?"

"Think of it as a mental health day. For everyone." She tipped her head to the side. Dean caught sight of the side mirror. The passenger seat appeared to be empty in its reflection. "You save people, right?"

"That's the job."

"And people are generally happy to see you because of it?"

"Well…," said Sam from the backseat.

"It might be nice to be greeted with happiness instead of fear." She seemed to consider for a moment and then stuck out her hand. "One day. One day, I'm on your side of the fight."

Dean hesitated, then shook her hand. Her fingers felt cold and rough against his palm. "Glad to have you along, then. I guess. We'll see who wins?"

She smiled, with no teeth. "No one wins."

Dean started the car.

"So," the Reaper said, reclining the seat. "The team motto. Hunting people, saving things, yes?"

" _No_ ," said Dean.

"We'll work on it," said Sam, and patted the Reaper's shoulder over the seat.


End file.
